We are down to swords and fists.Hands can cause unimaginable damage, but our tongues can scar deeper.
Fae need hours to replenish their magic, and vampires need human blood. But it’s hard to find a moment to drink blood when magic and swords are racing to kill you.
I spot my younger brother, Tristen, as he swings his sword, just like I taught him. Metal clashes, then screeches as the blades fight for victory.
Another body falls. Tristen adds another tally to his death sheet.
I wonder how Ryker is doing. Gods, I pray he’s safe. He was sent on an ambush mission. I search the fields for Nero, Cyrus, and Ember, but the fighting has scattered us. Like the threads of a fraying sweater, we are barely able to stay connected and remain whole.
Another blade swings towards me. I deflect it and meet the eyes of a vampire. He swings again, his sword almost slicing my neck. His brown eyes are wild as mist, fogging his vision and thickening his terror.
“Hey!” I shout. “I’m on your side. I’m a vampire!”
He swings three more times until he blinks, lost and confused, his hands shaking. “I’m… I’m sorry,” he mutters. A deep seed of emotion blooms in his eyes.
I don’t like it.
I grab the back of his neck and press him to my chest, holding him as I try to steer us out of the thick of the fighting. “Go!” I push him. “Fall back. You’re injured.”
He looks down at his body. “But I’m not.”
We lock eyes.There, you understand. Your mind is gravely wounded, my friend.“Go rest.”
“Rest. I… I like the sound of that,” he whispers to himself as his eyes comb through the sea of dead bodies littering the ground.
“Go,” I order in a gentle tone.
He nods, stumbling as he walks a short distance. I want to grab him, to take him myself, but I can’t risk leaving my brother on the field.
Why’s he unbuckling his breastplate?
Our armor isn’t terribly heavy, but my leather straps are so crusted and stiff with blood that it makes my movements challenging. Rumor has it that mages are trying to enhance fabric with magic, eliminating the need for metal armor. Unfortunately, that technology hasn’t yet reached our land. Soon, it will. I hope it makes the fighting shorter and the death swifter. Any mercy helps.
Mages and humans are the best at innovation; it’s fae and vampires who turn those inventions into weapons.
The vampire tosses his breastplate onto the bodies. He tips his chin up as he raises his hand.
“Wait!” I scream. “Don’t!” I trip and land on something soft. My poleyns become warm and sticky, making my leathers wet and soaking my knees.
My throat tightens with dread when I look down. I’ve fallen on a fae corpse; my mouth parts as I gasp, pushing my chin into the sliced-open entrails. Stench and rot choke me. I stand up clumsily, trying to ignore the atrocities of war, and focus on helping my fellow soldier.
He thrust his sword down directly into his heart. A fatal blow to any magical creature. His knees fall before I can make it to him.
My eyes burn with dryness, but I can’t blink. My hearing dulls into a sharp whistle. My body tingles. My throat rolls, but I can’t swallow. “Rest now, brother,” I manage to rasp.
I grip my sword. My morals leave. I want to lash out. I spot easy prey, a fae bent over a dying one, hands held as they voice their goodbyes. I could raise my sword and allow him to join his friend. He’d be easy to ambush.
Stop!
Think!
Your wrath is misdirected.
Sparing souls will be what kills me. A clever man seizes opportunities to eliminate his foe.
The hairs on my neck stand on end, shaking the sweat that clings to them. It drips down my back.
Gods, I want to rip off my armor so my skin can find relief from the weight and rashes it causes.
